“You can't tell what a fellow 'll do,” said the voice of Mabbey--“take to drink or writin' books. Old Charlie Wayne came to gazin' at stars, and twice a week he used to go and paddle round in Whitechapel, teachin' pothooks--” “Glennie,” said Sir James, “what 's become of Smollett, your old keeper?” “Obliged to get rid of him.” Shelton tried again to close his ears, but again he listened. “Getting a bit too old; lost me a lot of eggs last season.” “Ah!” said the Commodore, “when they oncesh begin to lose eggsh--” “As a matter of fact, his son--you remember him, Sir James, he used to load for you?--got a girl into trouble; when her people gave her the chuck old Smollet took her in; beastly scandal it made, too. The girl refused to marry Smollett, and old Smollett backed her up. Naturally, the parson and the village cut up rough; my wife offered to get her into one of those reformatory what-d' you-call-'.ms, but the old fellow said she should n't go if she did n't want to. Bad business altogether; put him quite off his stroke. I only got five hundred pheasants last year instead of eight.” There was a silence. Shelton again peeped through the hedge. All were eating pie. “In Warwickshire,” said the Commodore, “they always marry--haw--and live reshpectable ever after.” “Quite so,” remarked the host; “it was a bit too thick, her refusing to marry him. She said he took advantage of her.” “She's sorry by this time,” said Sir James; “lucky escape for young Smollett. Queer, the obstinacy of some of these old fellows!” “What are we doing after lunch?” asked the Commodore. “The next field,” said the host, “is pasture. We line up along the hedge, and drive that mustard towards the roots; there ought to be a good few birds.” “Shelton rose, and, crouching, stole softly to the gate: “On the twelfth, shootin' in two parties,” followed the voice of Mabbey from the distance. Whether from his walk or from his sleepless night, Shelton seemed to ache in every limb; but he continued his tramp along the road. He was no nearer to deciding what to do. It was late in the afternoon when he reached Maidenhead, and, after breaking fast, got into a London train and went to sleep. At ten o'clock that evening he walked into St. James's Park and there sat down. The lamplight dappled through the tired foliage on to these benches which have rested many vagrants. Darkness has ceased to be the lawful cloak of the unhappy; but Mother Night was soft and moonless, and man had not despoiled her of her comfort, quite. Shelton was not alone upon the seat, for at the far end was sitting a young girl with a red, round, sullen face; and beyond, and further still, were dim benches and dim figures sitting on them, as though life's institutions had shot them out in an endless line of rubbish. “Ah!” thought Shelton, in the dreamy way of tired people; “the institutions are all right; it's the spirit that's all--”